


Unchanging, Everchanging

by Khione_North



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Mating Bond, Only One Bed, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khione_North/pseuds/Khione_North
Summary: When he was a boy, the Crystal Exarch — G’raha Tia — often lulled himself into the gentle, fog-misted land of dreams and the soul-heart’s deepest desires with vivid imaginings of what his soulmate — for surely one such as he, with his strange eye and alienating eccentricities, was destined for a grand adventure beyond the stifling confines of his backwards tribe, and everyone knows that the greatest adventurers find their soul’s perfect match somewhere along their hero’s journey — might be like.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39
Collections: Bookclub Top Trope Challenge (January 2021)





	1. Chapter 1

_ When he was a boy, the Crystal Exarch — G’raha Tia — often lulled himself into the gentle, fog-misted land of dreams and the soul-heart’s deepest desires with vivid imaginings of what his soulmate — for surely one such as he, with his strange eye and alienating eccentricities, was destined for a grand adventure beyond the stifling confines of his backwards tribe, and everyone knows that the greatest adventurers find their soul’s perfect match somewhere along their hero’s journey — might be like. _

_ Of course, she would be wickedly intelligent with a wit as dangerous as any weapon, but she would also be warm and kind to those she deemed worthy, and he would be the worthiest of all. She would have an utterly delightful sense of humor, happy to give as good as she got, and her laugh would be a most alluring sound, comparable to the pealing chimes of carillon bells ringing out a merry tune. _

_ G’raha was not very picky about appearances. Whoever his soulmate would be, he had no doubt that he would find her to be the most beautiful creature in all of creation. _

_ Throughout his adolescence, he crafted for his lonely soul a perfect adventure to be undertaken with a perfect partner at his side.  _

_ By the time he left his tribe, though, cynicism had become a heavy shadow waiting in the wings of his imagination, whispering its foul narratives into his heart. Soulmates were a mere fantasy, a cruel kindness — or perhaps a kind cruelty — told to lonesome dreamers such as himself to bring a tiny modicum of blade-edged comfort to their mundane lives. _

_ He had all but given up hope and belief in the faerie tale of fated bonds between souls when he first met  _ **_her_ ** _.  _

_ Night dark curls grazed sharp collar bones and framed sharper features, pale eyes like shimmering pools of liquid moonlight peering out from a pale face, curious and alert and yet only barely touched by the wickedness of the world. Striking, neither classically beautiful nor hedonistically so; she was striking in her sharp angles and sharper mind. _

_ She had a heart that was equal measures warm and curious, willing to throw herself in the path of danger or embrace those with hurting hearts; and cold and calculating, ever-watching, analyzing, learning. In her, G’raha found the most fascinating puzzle of all, and he was determined to piece it together, even if it took the rest of his life. _

_ The Warrior of Light, a true hero, a newborn star ascending to guide his thoughts and dreams of epic adventure.  _

_ He, of course, made an absolute fool of himself; a young man of four and twenty summers, taunting a young woman of only twenty, playing keep-away with a bag of aethersand necessary for their dawning exploration of the Syrcus Tower to begin.  _

_ From the very first, G’raha knew he was a goner in her presence. He found himself searching for constant excuses to be near her, marauding through the first flowers of affection under the guise of hero worship and the youthful desire to spend time in the company of someone his own age, surrounded as they were by the older scholars of NOAH and the engineers from the Ironworks. _

_ By the second week of their expedition, the two were inseparable. Their comrades teased them endlessly in the warm, playful way that one often associates with close-knit families or groups of old friends, and though G’raha cursed how his cheeks took on a near-permanent blush as a result, he was happier than he’d been in his two-and-change decades of life. He attributed much of it to her companionship. _

_ There was a natural ebb and flow between them that made it impossibly easy to talk to her, to allow himself to be open and vulnerable with her — more so than he had been in years with anyone since his mother’s death. It truly surprised exactly no one when, by the end of the third week, G’raha had collapsed his tent in favor of sharing hers. _

_ In favor of sharing Elle’s.  _

_ It was the best thing that ever happened to him, and the worst. _

_ For the first moon of their new arrangement, G’raha and Elle maintained a perfectly respectable distance between their bedrolls. Whether out of a true sense of propriety, or simply out of awkwardness, neither of them exactly knew. _

_ And then Elle’s nightmares started getting worse. _

“Er, G’raha,” Elle murmurs, peering out of their tent nervously. Her inky hair is in the process of escaping from the messy braid thrown over one of her pale shoulders, and the heralding humidity of the coming gloom storm has turned the fugitive wisps into frizzy curls. G’raha only realizes that he’s staring stupidly — again — when she clears her throat and turns to look back at him.

“Huh? What is it, Elle?” he says. He sits up, stretching, before he strolls over to join her by the open flap of the tent. His arm twitches to reach out and touch her, to pull her close and breathe her in, but he busies himself with adjusting one of his bracers instead while his mismatched eyes examine his companion for any obvious signs of distress beyond the thin set of her mouth.

Much to his surprise, Elle  _ fidgets  _ and looks askance, pale rose blossoming on her high, sharp cheeks. “I…. Could I sleep with you tonight?” she mumbles.

G’raha’s ears flicker and swivel, and suddenly he’s joining Elle in her fidgeting, unsure of how to properly even think, let alone form a coherent sentence. “Co-come again?” he stammers. Elle frowns deeply, chewing on her lower lip. G’raha can’t help but wish he were the one chewing on her lip instead.

She huffs, finally looking up at him. “The nightmares — I mean, you know that I have them since you’re always teasing me about waking you up in the middle of the night, but they’ve been getting worse since we breached the Labyrinth and I feel like something dark is waking up, waiting for us, and it’s like I can tell something’s going to happen but I don’t know  _ what _ , and I…,” her voice trails off and gets very, very quiet, and G’raha doesn’t even try to fight the urge to crush her to his chest in a bold moment’s embrace, “I don’t want to sleep in my own bedroll anymore.”

She is delicate in his arms, but far from fragile. Standing in their little tent made crowded by mountainous piles of books and open trunks erupting with clothes and supplies, holding Elle, the vaunted Warrior of Light, against him in silent comfort, G’raha feels a door deep within him unlock. “Of course,” he finally manages, pulling back to smile down at her. He chuckles, ears and tail wiggling with friendly, familiar playfulness. “Even if not for the nightmares, I was going to ask you to share my bedroll anyways — it gets cold at night, and I could use a personal heater.”

Elle giggles, shaking her head. “Liar.”

G’raha simply gives her his best innocent smile, feigning insult and ignorance. “You wound me, Finder of Aethersand.”

_ Thus, they settled into a new routine, clinging tighter and tighter to one another the further they explored the Tower and its ancient, beautiful horrors. Every passing day pulled him closer to her, reeled in the incandescent line hooked between them. For the first time in his life, G’raha felt wanted, welcomed, warm. The monstrous truths and terrors they faced as they climbed the Tower were as ants so long as he could remain by Elle’s side, merely superfluous distractions clamoring for his attention when all he could care about was her.  _

_ He quickly found that sharing a bedroll with someone was by far the greatest luxury of his life, made sweeter by the way she gradually opened up to him. Somewhere along the line, he coaxed her true name from her, and he tucked it deep within his heart, locked away for safekeeping. Even still, he insisted upon calling her by the full name she wore as a mask to hide a soul just as lonely as his own: Celestelle — Heavenly star. It was fitting, he thought. Elle.  _

_ Somewhere around the second and a half moon, G’raha finally allowed himself to face a frightening truth: He had well and truly fallen in love with the Warrior of Light. His dreams were always of her, of a life together after this expedition ended. Even in his waking hours, he fancied himself her foremost companion, and allowed himself, once or twice, to dive headfirst into daydreams wherein she reciprocated his feelings. The strange bond between them, coupled with their nights spent cuddled close in G’raha’s bedroll did nothing to dispel such flights of fancy, and in fact gave the young historian cause to hope. _

_ And then they reached the pinnacle of the Tower. _

_ Reborn rulers. Cloned royals. Pacts with Darkness. Friends found and lost and found again. Ancient bloodlines made complete, showing him the truth while dooming Allag’s last prince to his fate. _

_ Elle was his soulmate….  _

_ …. And G’raha Tia was the Heir of Allag. _

Silence blankets St. Coinach’s Find, oppressive and near-suffocating in the wake of their barely successful escape from the World of Darkness. G’raha sits alone at the edge of camp, watching the sun slowly fall beneath the horizon, the sky a watercolor of vibrant oranges and pinks fading into evening lavender and powdery grey-blue. It occurs to him that this is the last sunset he will witness for…. Well, he’s not sure how long. His head and heart hurt anew at the realization, as they have with every occurrence of thought that has come to him since Doga and Unei blessed and cursed him with his destiny. 

He feels Elle approach, like a missing piece of his soul coming closer, before her rich scent of rose and white jasmine, pine forests and soft musk, orange blossoms and something sweet and fruity curls around him, and finally she sits beside him.

For a while — G’raha isn’t sure how long, nor does he care — they stare out over the desolate landscape of Mor Dhona, the crystals bathing everything in harsh, unforgiving white-blue light with the darkening of the sky. His mind is a wild blaze of ever-gloomier thoughts, each new realization adding more kindling to the worried fire of his heart, and he all but jumps out of his skin when Elle picks up his arm and drapes it around her shoulders. 

“Do I want to know what has you so lost and consumed by thought that you haven’t noticed me scooting closer for the past ten minutes?” she teases quietly, testing tense waters.

“Hah! I am simply a tad tired and trying to muddle my thoughts together.” G’raha puts on his bravest face while his tail tickles its way along Elle’s side, a gentle distraction that only barely works. “Being imparted with ancient knowledge and power has a way of sapping one’s energy.”

Elle gives him one of her Looks, skepticism and concern and an emotion G’raha can’t quite place, but she doesn’t push the matter, and he finds himself grateful. Every time he looks at her, every time his gaze meets her pale moonlight eyes, feelings and words that he doesn’t understand bubble up from the depths of his very soul. He’s overtaken by the sudden urge to pull her fully into his arms, and mere seconds later, Elle shivers from the gloaming chill that descends upon the land. With guilt and... _ love _ ...in his heart, G’raha acts on his impulse, settling the Warrior into his lap, his arms a shield around her to protect her from the cruel truths of the world. 

The most painful realization yet hits him as he rests his chin atop Elle’s dark curls — Come the morrow, he will never get to hold her to him ever again. By this time the next day, he will be the lone sentinel of Allag’s legacy, while she will continue along her ascending path, her star reaching new heights of glory and renown. G’raha buries his face in the top of her hair, stemming the oncoming tide of tears that threatens to shatter his facade, by breathing her in. There will be time for tears when all is said and done. For now, he will focus on enjoying what little time he has left with Elle, share with her as much of himself as he can, that he might live on in her memory long after the Tower is sealed once more and the bards begin to spin their tales of the sorceress from Ishgard.

His song begins softly, a tune carried on a whisper against her ear. He weaves for her a ballad, passed down through his mother’s side of the family, of a witch who tore through time and space itself to reunite with her lost love, who battled monsters and demons and Man, and emerged victorious to ascend her throne of stars in the heavens with her lover by her side.

By the time the last note fades into the cold, clear night, the witch-goddess and her lover sit above G’raha and Elle, forever keeping watch from the night sky. He prays that they will continue to guard and guide her, even after he cannot.

A tiny sniffle breaks him from his thoughts, and his entire being reorients to focus on Elle. “What is it?” he murmurs, sudden panic lacing his voice. “Why are you crying?”

Elle shifts in G’raha’s arms, maneuvering to straddle him, to force him to face her. She wipes away a tear and chuckles. “That was just…. Raha, that was  _ beautiful _ . I could  **feel** the music,” she taps her chest above her heart, “here.”

The way Elle looks up at him sets G’raha’s own heart to racing, the threads of the universe, of existence itself, tugging him ever closer to her. He memorizes the sharp lines and elegant curves of her features, engraves them at the forefront of his mind to treasure until the end of his days. His lips hover less than an ilm from hers, taunting, inviting. “May I?” he sighs.

Her breath hitches, and she moves to stand, offering a delicate hand to G’raha. “We should…. I mean…. It’s late and cold. We can continue talking in the tent,” she gasps and stammers, the airy lilt of her voice turned husky. Something white-hot and primal within G’raha rumbles its approval and desire, quickly snuffed into silence by a glance to the glowing column of the Tower. He takes Elle’s hand, uses his own rising momentum to scoop her up into his arms, wondering what lucky man will one day get to carry her like this over the threshold of a home G’raha will never see. He presses a kiss to her hairline before he can catch himself, and a dam breaks between both of them, desperate and longing.

His lips are upon hers the moment they’re safely cloistered in their tent, breaking only so that G’raha can set Elle on her own two feet, lest he lose his balance and injure them both from the force of the levin crackling between them. 

He bows to kiss her once more, reverent hands exploring the bony trail of her spine, the warmth of her nape hidden by the dark curtain of her hair, coming to hook his thumbs beneath the lobes of her ears and cradle her face. She groans and loops her arms around his neck to tug on his braid — to tug his hair out of its tie and tangle her fingers in it.

All of existence and eternity contracts into the infinitesimally small space between their bodies, their souls dancing around one another in the practiced steps of a dance neither of them have ever learned. 

G’raha leaves the softness of Elle’s lips to blaze a path along her jaw and down her neck until he finds the slope of her shoulder and scents the lifeblood thrumming beneath her pale skin. His knees threaten to buckle, his mind an intoxicated mess from the barest whiff that leaves him desperate for  _ more _ . When he once more meets her eyes, the dark dilation of her pupils tells him that he’s not the only one.

Elle — by her own hand, to G’raha’s surprise — is the first to lose her shirt; or she would be, were it not for the most inopportune visit from Rammbroes of G’raha’s life.

Instead, the Warrior tugs the hem of her tunic back down and dives beneath the waiting covers of her own bedroll, pretending to be asleep as G’raha’s mentor ducks into the tent.

Rammbroes spares a smile at the Warrior, then turns to his miqo’te charge, the picture of fatherly concern. “I came to check on you — we all missed you at dinner, G’raha. Has your headache cleared?”

G’raha blinks, dumbfounded for a moment. Most of his mind remains focused on the dark haired sorceress, and coherent thought once more escapes him while he gasps and gapes like a fish out of water.

“I-I…. Yes, it has,” he splutters. “I was actually just about to go to bed, though. Thank you, Rammbroes….” His voice, his entire countenance, suddenly turns a little sad, and his smile barely reaches his nose, let alone his now-matching scarlet eyes. “For everything. Goodnight.”

Rammbroes, Twelve bless him, doesn’t argue. Instead, with a warm chuckle and a matching grin, he pulls G’raha in close for a crushing hug, before stepping back with his hands planted on G’raha’s shoulders. “You’ve come a long way from the awkward boy I found lurking in the forbidden section back in Sharlayan, G’raha. I’m proud of the man you’ve become, and are continuing to become... But please be sure to be  _ responsible _ .” The older man gives a knowing glance over G’raha’s shoulder at Elle. “Celestelle is a good woman. Don’t mess things up.”

His mentor turns and leaves before G’raha has a chance to respond beyond stammering and blushing some more. 

G’raha turns and shuffles over to the bedroll, blinking down at Elle. It’s a few minutes of awkward silence, though, before Elle sits up, barely holding back laughter at the way G’raha’s ears and tail stand on end.

“I think we were a little less subtle than we thought,” she hums as she stands. “We’d best get ready for bed, I’m afraid. There’s much to do tomorrow, and I’d say that our earlier  _ mood _ is effectively ruined.” 

A murmured fire spell lights the brazier in the center of the tent to crackle and warm the chilled air, illuminating the pale sorceress in soft gold while she bends to pull her nightshirt from her trunk. G’raha crosses the space in a few and a half strides, halting Elle’s movements. Levin zings and sizzles through his veins, his mind a dizzied static of want and attraction and the purely male desire to surround her with his scent. 

“Here,” he gasps, his voice a rough sound somewhere between a purr and a domineering growl as he tugs his own shirt over his head and hands it to her, “no point in dirtying anything since we’re all packing up tomorrow.”

Elle’s answering blush rivals G’raha’s own, but she pulls on the offered article with a shy smile. “Thank you.”

He nods and averts his eyes to allow her to continue changing into sleeping clothes, looking only when he hears the rustle of the bedroll being disturbed once more. He changes into his own quickly, more than a little desperate to join her beneath the covers.

As with so many nights before this one, G’raha draws Elle close and winds his tail around her thigh, tucking her under his chin with a rumbling purr.

“After tomorrow,” Elle begins, idly tracing one of the tattoos on the side of G’raha’s neck with the tip of her nail, “I think I’d like to visit Sharlayan. You wouldn’t happen to know a qualified guide, would you?”

G’raha chuckles, even as pain lances through his new eye once more, and the truths bequeathed him by Doga and Unei taunt him. Still, he puts on a brave face and gently strokes Elle’s dark, unbound curls. “As a matter of fact, I know the perfect man for the job. There is but a small price to pay, but I think it’s worth it.”

“Oh? And what would this price be?”

G’raha looks down at her with a playful smirk, hoping that the firelight will help make up for the lackluster sparkle of his eyes. “One last kiss before sleep.”

Elle giggles — another thing for G’raha to memorize and call to mind in the long years that now stretch ahead of him. His eyes flick to the pale pools of pewter that look up at him with mirth and flirtatious, teasing intent; and his heart breaks that much more to know that he must now lie to her while he looks her in the eye. Nobody had ever warned him that falling in love would bring so much joy, and yet so much pain.

“Is that all?” she muses, pretending to think on the matter for a second. “You have yourself a deal.”

This time, when G’raha leans down, one hand hooked under Elle’s chin, and his lips meet hers, he makes an effort to take his time. 

From the very first contact, he feels as though he might gladly drown. For someone already so trained in the ways of combat, Elle is surprisingly soft in G’raha’s embrace. The kiss lasts for an instant and an eternity, a moment frozen in precious time that G’raha only pretends to still have.

They break apart, reluctant and breathless, cheeks flushed with dewy, youthful joy.

“Tell him that I’ll happily pay more tomorrow if he so wishes,” Elle yawns. She snuggles close and settles in for sleep with a tiny hum. “Goodnight, Raha.”

He murmurs his goodnight into her crown of dark hair, her true name a whispered prayer for mercy from the merciless gods who have doomed him to his fate. His soulmate. His sorceress-queen. He prays she will forgive him eventually.

Celestelle awakens to find herself cold and very much alone, despite the fact that the sun has not even peeked its face above the horizon ye— Wait…. The tent is open, and G’raha’s things are go— 

“Celestelle!” Rammbroes calls, dashing into view of the tent’s open flaps. The panic evident in the older scholar’s voice launches the sorceress out of the bedroll.

“Rammbroes? Is aught amiss?” she huffs, frowning. It’s a silly question, she knows, but she can’t think much beyond her own rising fear.

“It’s G’raha,” Rammbroes pants. “We must get to the Tower.”

If Rammbroes stays to wait for a response, Elle doesn’t know or care. She dresses quickly — dark leggings, a plain top, worn riding boots, and a long, dark coat — and frankly, does everything quickly, before she grabs her staff and sprints at full tilt toward the Crystal Tower.

G’raha blocks them from entering, and Elle’s mind goes nearly blank, hearing and yet not, what G’raha has to say. The same strange tug in her temples that always accompanies the heavy hand of fate prickles and freezes her in place, rendering her incapable of moving to stop him.

He lied.

He intends to seal himself away.

And there is nothing she can do.

“....the star by which I will chart my course....”

The first tear slips down her cheek. Then the second. More and more, they blind her and dampen her face until G’raha — eccentric, brilliant, handsome G’raha — becomes little more than a blurred figure.

She wastes precious seconds crying, and by the time her vision clears, he is walking away from them.

And then— 

One last look over his shoulder. His lips form words meant only for her.

Her full name.

_ “I love you _ . _ ” _

The dam breaks anew just as ancient doors slam shut in her face.

A bloodcurdling scream erupts from her, tears through her chest and throat and heart.

**_“RAHA!”_ **

She lunges at the Allagan stone, clawing desperately until someone picks her up and tries to carry her away. She struggles in their hold, reaching out.

“Let me go!” she shrieks. “I need to open these doors! Please! G’raha’s in there! Please! I love him!”

But still they carry her away, and eventually, her soul wearies from putting up such a fight. Grief, numbing and dark, rushes in to fill the void where just bells before there was hope and joy at the prospect of a life with G’raha Tia in it.

By the time they return to St. Coinach’s Find, Celestelle is calm. Too calm. She packs up their — her tent with sharp efficiency. G’raha had taken most of his belongings with him.

Most.

But not all.

She folds his shirt reverently and tucks it away in her bag, only to discover a book and an envelope that hadn’t been there the night before.

His thesis, bound in supple leather — she had once asked to read it, and he had always found excuses to keep it from her — and a letter.

_ “My dear Elle, _

_ You’re sleeping right now, for which I am glad. I do not think I could stomach writing this with you aware of it. I can barely write it as is. _

_ No doubt you’ve already discovered my final act as a member of NOAH. I’m going to assume that I’ve already said my goodbyes and locked the doors. _

_ First of all, I am sorry. I truly wanted to show you Sharlayan, and even go on an adventure or two with you. As well you, of all people, know, fate is cruel, but I cannot fight my destiny any more than you can yours. _

_ This brings me to my second point, Elle: Live. Live and undertake a grand adventure for me, that I might read all about it one day when I awaken.  _

_ I pray that Nymeia and Menphina see fit to bless you with a life full of joy and love. It is what you deserve. _

_ I love you. _

_ -G” _

Her heart shatters anew as she reads and rereads the letter, clutches it to her chest, and wails. The others milling about the camp, blessedly, do not come to check on her.

She departs from the Find just as the sun reaches its zenith. Her eyes are older and colder, her pale face drawn. She locks the eccentric scholar away in her heart, her soul, and begins her path afresh.

  
  


And G’raha Tia awakens into a world where she no longer exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments or DMs are welcome and appreciated! I love hearing from y'all:)
> 
> Shout out to all of the lovely people [Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for their enthusiastic support and encouragement! Come check it out if you want more awesome FFXIV fic, or are interested in writing FFXIV fic!
> 
> Much love,  
> Blue the Magpie


	2. Chapter 2

_ Acrid smoke burned his nose and called stinging tears to his scarlet eyes. The ground beneath his shaking, sleep-leaden feet roared and begged for more blood while the darkened sky overhead wept with aether-wild rain that did more harm than good.  _

_ The brave souls of the Ironworks escorted him to their makeshift base, solemn and silent, focused on their task. _

_ This was not the future G’raha had ever intended to awaken into. This was a nightmare turned into bitter reality. _

_ And now they were trusting him to undo it. _

_ The Eorzea he now walked was not the one he had left behind. Everywhere he looked, the  _ **_tatatatat_ ** _ of artillery, the whistling of aerial weaponry and projectiles, the screams and moans of the dying created a gruesome symphony that screeched through his entire being. A small corner of his soul, a snow-blanketed mountain dotted with proud evergreens and crowned by starlight, stayed eerily silent, little more than the ghost of a memory of a connection. _

_ Elle was dead.  _

_ Of course, he was two hundred years into the future, relative to when he’d left her — regardless of the world he’d stepped out of the Tower into, she would’ve been dead. _

_ But she wasn’t just dead. She’d been  _ **_murdered_ ** _. _

The Crystal Exarch awakes with a heaving gasp, tears slipping down his cheeks at those awful memories that continue haunting his dreams.

He sighs and sits up, groaning as he peels a piece of paper from his cheek. Lyna is going to scold him. Again.

But today is the day. He just needs to wait for her to find the beacon.

And then he would see her again.

Elle.

The clock on the opposite wall reads a little past six in the morning — not that morning means much here when the night is obscured by oppressive, unending Light. That will change. If anyone can bring back the night sky, it’ll be Elle.

He allows himself a small, fond, secret smile at the thought of his soulmate, with her night dark hair and starlight eyes.

Stretching, he rises from the great oaken chair behind his great oaken desk, and begins his morning routine. Bathe, dress, grab a book, and meander down to the Crystalline Mean for coffee.

He’s only just taken his first sip when he feels the sharp tug on the golden thread of his bond with Elle. The coffee shop at the Crystalline Mean can wait.

Destiny cannot.

The Crystal Exarch sprints at full tilt toward the Tower, calling the barest excuse and apology to Katliss over his shoulder, along with promises to return to the cafe later.

Excitement thrums through him like a living thing, wild and uncontainable. His body protests at the physical exertion, even as he grows stronger the closer he gets to the Tower’s ancient doors. Hope blooms in his chest, rises like the winding staircases that lead him up to the Ocular, and he almost feels like the young man he once was by the time he skids to a halt in front of his all-seeing mirror.

Destiny awaits.

  
  


**Meanwhile, on the Source**

“Are you absolutely sure of this, Celestelle?” Tataru frets, refilling the Warrior of Light’s cup of coffee for the fourth time that morning. The sun hasn’t even risen, has only just begun to fade parts of the dark sky into softer grey-blue.

Celestelle sighs and leans back in her chair, nursing the coffee slowly. She watches the town below begin to wake up: merchants setting up their stalls, shopkeeps sweeping the nighttime dust from their doorsteps, adventurers setting off on whatever jobs have come their way. The cool air of pre-dawn Mor Dhona tickles at Celestelle’s face, pushing her toward the Tower standing tall on the horizon, and if she focuses enough and silences her thoughts, she swears she can almost hear an eccentric scholar teasing her with a roguish grin on his handsome face.

“Yes, Tataru,” she finally says, giving the receptionist a small smile that she hopes approximates something like encouragement, “I’m as sure of this as I can be. We owe it to the others to at least tr—”

“There has to be some other way! We can’t afford to lose you, too!”

Celestelle turns to square with Tataru, the cold, stoic mask of the Warrior of Light slipping into place far too easily. “This is a risk that I have to take. I can  _ feel _ it.”

The vague mention of Celestelle’s unique Echo is enough to silence Tataru. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Celestelle curses herself for being so harsh when she sees the receptionist’s face fall, but now is not the time for being soft.

“Just promise me you’ll bring them back, okay?” Tataru murmurs, uncharacteristically quiet, her voice missing its usual sunshine.

The Warrior of Light nods and rests a gentle hand on the lalafell’s shoulder for a moment. “I promise, Tataru.”

They stand and clear their breakfast in soulful silence, little more than a pair of automatons going through motions in preparation for the next grand adventure.

A pang of guilt echoes through Celestelle’s chest when she retreats into her tiny bedroom to pack her bag and make her own last-minute preparations. She hates the look on Tataru’s face, the worry etched there, and wishes more than anything that she could simply snap her fingers and give her friend a reason to smile again. 

A whole other world…. She’s preparing to travel through the Rift to a world that’s not her own, on the bidding of a complete stranger with a voice so familiar that it physically pains her.

No, she can’t think about this. Not right now. Focus.

Her dresser sits open and empty, her clothing all neatly packed away in her enchanted bag, along with her journal, emergency rations, some potions gifted to her by her parents, and more books on magic than she really has any business owning.

The last thing she packs is a simple shirt, a few sizes too large for her petite frame, and woven from soft red cotton so bright, it might have once outshone Dalamud. Her most treasured possession, the only reminder she has of…. Of  _ him _ . She holds it up to her face, breathes in the still-lingering scent of cedar and cinnamon and light male musk that clings to the shirt even after five whole years, as though somewhere, he is still as reticent to leave her as she is to let him go.

Sighing, Celestelle folds the shirt with extra care and places it at the top of her bag, before she sets about doing all of the buckles and protective spells that guard the vast majority of her worldly possessions. Taking one final look around the small, bare room — she never spends enough time here to justify decorating, or even asking for a larger room. This is simply where she sleeps, bathes, and dresses; a means to an end, a waypoint to recharge before throwing herself once more into the thick of things — Celestelle slings her bag across her body to rest at her hip, and leaves in silence, with only the  _ click click click _ of her heels on the stone floor to herald her departure.

The remaining members of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn await her in the lounge, gathered in a huddled clump like sheep lost without their shepherd. Tataru and Krile stand at the front, Tataru looking up at Celestelle with large, hopeful, misty eyes; and Krile watching the sorceress with her kind determination laced with concern. Celestelle wonders if perhaps the dark circles under her own eyes are anywhere near as bad as the ones under Krile’s.

“Are you ready?” Tataru asks, shuffling closer to Celestelle. The Warrior kneels and nods, letting her facade of confidence and strength slip into place. She is the Warrior of Light, the Savior of Eorzea, the Dragonsong, Liberatrix of Doma and Ala Mhigo, Hydaelyn’s Chosen Champion, and so many other grand titles thrown at her as roses to a theater troupe. For her friends, her family, and all those counting on her, she can handle whatever comes next. She  _ must _ handle whatever comes next.

And so she gives Tataru another nod.

“I am. We should get going. I want to be at the Trench by sunrise.”

Cold, practical, no room for argument or dallying. She has played the part of the ice queen for so long that she does not remember what it is like to open herself up and be anything except pragmatic and calculating.

The trek to the ferry across Silvertear is mercifully quick, allowing Celestelle very little time to consider the fact that this is the closest she’s been to the Tower since that horrible morning five years ago. Even now, in the periphery of her vision, she can see the faint shimmer of an opalescent thread emanating from her heart and disappearing into the blue crystal structure. He is alive, at least, but the thought is of little comfort.

Engineers from the Ironworks and the Sons of Saint Coinach are already milling about in the chilly trench beneath the Tower’s imposing shadow, digging through rubble and ancient detritus, searching for an object whose appearance no one quite knows. Celestelle internally curses the hooded figure for the fifty millionth time that week alone, but calms herself with a mental promise to give the bastard unholy hells for the anguish and trouble he’s put her and her friends through.

She barely registers Biggs and Wedge chattering with Tataru as the ever-present prickling sensation at her temples suddenly flares into animated life, and the opal-silver-blue thread of her own fate tugs her to the far back of the excavation site.

Tataru, gods bless her, almost immediately picks up on the way Celestelle moves as though sleepwalking, the telltale signs of fate working its enigmatic magic on the sorceress’s life.

There. A small disk peeks out from a puddle of rocks and pebbles, clean and out of place among the dust-covered relics the Sons have so far uncovered. Somehow, Celestelle  _ knows _ . She kneels to pick it up, uncaring of the dirtying of her hem.

It’s warm and hums with magic that is both ancient and young, familiar and unfamiliar, like a hug from an old friend and a complete stranger all at once.

The world tilts, and a sudden, sharp ringing echoes through Celestelle’s head. That voice, that achingly familiar voice, calls her, so clear that the owner might very well be standing beside her, murmuring in her ear like a lover, yelling, desperate, pained. She staggers and sways, overtaken by shooting pain behind her eye, a pulling behind her navel.

_ “Let expanse contract, eon become instant….” _ The voice grows louder, begs her to stay with it — with him — and Celestelle can do little except pray that she survives this.  _ “Throw wide the gates that we may pass!” _

Something explodes into fiery life within her, a shimmering red thread intertwining with her pale blue.

Tataru says something as Celestelle crumples to the ground, but the sorceress is too far gone to hear beyond the notes of hope in the receptionist’s voice.

And the world goes dark.

  
  


**Meanwhile, on the First**

The Crystal Exarch knows the moment the Warrior of Light takes hold of the beacon, not because of the beacon’s magic, but because the bond that bridges their souls, intrinsically tied to one another by Fate itself, suddenly bursts into brilliant life.

With a deep breath, he dives inward, down into the depths of his soul, fortified by the Tower’s unlimited power, stopping only when he finds the star-flecked gates of a bond he has waited centuries to visit once more.

Another deep breath. In. Out.

Eyes of vivid scarlet flutter shut, while the staff in his hand vibrates with the raw power it channels as he murmurs the spell, and reaches out with his very soul to pull on this most sacred bond between them with all of his might.

To his great joy, and no small amount of surprise, something — no,  _ someone _ — pulls back with equal strength. An icy, moonlight wind howls through G’raha’s being, the night-flecked gates crashing open.

Silence, then. 

He is successful.

She is here.

Elle.

Despite his excitement, though, fatigue suddenly hits him, and forces him to sit for a few minutes. He allows his imagination to wander for the first time in...well, in a very long time. He imagines sweeping Elle into his arms and kissing her until both of them are frantic for air; laying bare his every secret and plan and machination, starting first and foremost with his identity, followed quickly by the revelation that they are mates, a perfect match of souls divined by the mighty hands of Fate and Love; worshipping her in mind and body and soul and heart. All of these are mere dreams, impossibilities that must forever remain locked away in his heart of hearts, but just as when he was young, G’raha finds them to be a comfort.

A guard knocks on the door, breaking him from his daydreams, to inform him that a stranger has approached the main gates of the city.

The Crystal Exarch sets off running once more.

If the citizens of the Crystarium are concerned by their scholar-leader’s sudden burst of activity and erratic behavior, they have the good sense not to comment on it, even when he vaults over a fence with surprising athleticism.

It is only when he approaches the downhill slope leading to the Ascensor Gate that the Crystal Exarch slows to a casual, confident,  _ dignified _ walk, in his mind rehearsing the script he has spent years perfecting. All composure fades, though, when a wave of alarm and slight panic zings down the one-sided bond, a window into emotions not his own.

His feet begin running without any form of command from his brain, and gravity carries him at velocity towards his fate, his destiny, his inspiration, his mate.

Two figures come into view just as a stray sin eater dissolves into nothingness, fallen to Lyna’s expert skills and vicious glaives. Behind the captain, a young woman has her back to the Exarch, but he knows it’s her. It’s Elle.

He clears his throat, puts on his most placid, polite smile, and strolls the rest of the way toward the pair as they turn.

It takes his many long years of practice and self-control to stop himself from falling to his knees before her.

Elle is even more beautiful than G’raha remembers, and he doesn’t know where to look first.

Her eyes. Yes, good. 

Even beneath the shadow of the hat perched atop her head, Elle’s eyes stand out as pools of pure starlight, brilliant and piercing and all-seeing. They glow faintly — her Echo. She’s using her Echo. He wonders what threads she sees in this Light-blasted world.

Her hair is longer now. Much longer. It once brushed the bottom of her jaw, half-braided, half-curled into gentle, natural waves. Now, it curtains her sharp, striking features, a mighty river of those gentle waving curls that rushes down her back to dissipate into foam at her hips. She wears it down, much like the warrior-queens of eld.

Her clothes, as ever, are well-made at the intersection of elegant and  _ mostly _ practical — he knows few combatants who would willingly run into battle in a long skirt and heels, but Elle has always made it work, and he cannot fault her these small bits of personality in a role that otherwise seeks to steal her individuality.

His ears twitch beneath his hood, tail swaying hidden under layers of robes that suddenly feel too heavy for his body, as though the weight of finally seeing her again is causing him to collapse inwards. Lyna rests a hand on his shoulder, though, and it is enough to steady him and bring him back to his practiced script.

A pleasant invitation into the city. A gentle suggestion to retire to his study in the Tower. The usual ramblings of a new host, honeyed lies and half-truths that tumble from his lips with unnerving ease, the sides of his hood acting as blinders so that he doesn’t have to see her scowling at him from his peripheral vision while they walk away from Lyna, towards the grandeur of the Crystarium.   
  


“Have you  **_any_ ** idea of the trouble you’ve caused?”

Ah, there she is. 

They halt halfway up the hill, and the Crystal Exarch steels himself for this first reckoning.

He turns to face her, his mouth set in its practiced, placid smile as he beholds the coming snowstorm. It strikes him, then, how very much Elle has grown up. Of course, her features are still mostly the same, but the little details tell the full story of everything she’s been through in these intervening years. Her eyes, once bright and curious, are cold, guarded, sharp. A scar stands out stark across the pale bridge of her nose — according to the history books, it’s a trophy from one of her fights with Zenos. Her makeup is darker, heavier, nails kept long like claws now. Even the way she carries herself is changed now. Where once she cowered and hunched in on herself, Elle now stands proud, almost mirroring the Exarch’s own posture with her dark metal staff. At her hips, a pair of chakrams gleam in the light, and, if he remembers his information correctly, she carries an astrolabe in her bag.

“I assure you, my friend, it was entirely necessary. Come, we can speak more of this once we’ve found some privacy.”

  
  


Celestelle narrows her eyes and digs in her heels, unmoved by this ‘Crystal Exarch’s’ thinly-veiled pleas for privacy.

“You’ve placed people I love in danger with this summoning act of yours,” she hisses, her anger a black hole consuming everything inside her chest, “both on the Source and here in this...this...this blasted wasteland.”

If the Exarch is affected by her venomous words, he makes no indication. It almost infuriates her more, his pleasant smile on lush lips that she’s not sure whether she wants to punch or to kiss or both, the way she instinctively wants to draw closer to him and share in his space, the colourful mess of threads that weave about him but don’t connect and therefore render her unable to take his full measure.

“I am aware, and I do very sincerely apologize for it,” he begins in that calm, wise, even tone of his, “but the present situation necessitated such dire measures.” He gestures broadly — to the sickeningly beautiful forest of too-purple trees on either side of the road; to the guard post from which they have just departed; to the cloying, ethereal Light that leaves a distinct ringing in Celestelle’s ears like a tuning fork. “But truly, my friend, these are matters best discussed away from the populace. I do not wish to cause them panic by talking about such strange and dreadful things.”

Celestelle scoffs, but assents nonetheless. No point in arguing further.

The Exarch leads her into the city itself, a surprisingly bustling metropolis rising from the strange apocalyptic land outside the gates. She finds herself torn between bittersweet wonder, and innate curiosity, and for a moment, her anger ebbs as she takes in the Crystarium.

The Syrcus Tower looms over the city, an ancient sentinel here, just as on the Source. Everywhere she looks, the architecture flows with and into the Tower, hues of sand and gold and bright cerulean framed by black wrought iron veins radiating outwards from the hopeful, hateful pillar. Visions of happier times spent alongside a scarlet-haired scholar with a thirst for adventure and mischief flit through her mind, reminding her of the price the Tower has made her pay.

Children shriek and giggle, darting across the path in a game of tag, while a harried woman chases after them in an attempt to scold the youngsters. Citizens mill about, waving or bowing when they spy the Exarch and his guest. In a pasture off to one side, Celestelle nearly jumps out of her skin to see Amalj’aa tending to what appear to be large lizard-dhalmel-birds. The Exarch merely chuckles and continues to lead her up to a more familiar sight — an Aetheryte.

The aquamarine glow of the transportation crystal is a strange comfort to Celestelle, a reminder of home. Even before the Exarch explains to her that she can use it to travel between the two worlds, Celestelle already senses the gossamer threads stretching thin across the Rift, each connected to hearts held dear in her own.

But there’s one in particular that’s missing, a thread that, for five long years, has been woven deep into her heart of hearts and acted as a beacon.  _ G’raha…. _

The Exarch bids her explore the city while he goes on ahead, and it’s frighteningly easy, the way Celestelle slips back into the dutiful role of the Warrior of Light, always following some person of authority or another, listening to explanations and well-meaning words without ever fully processing. She smiles and nods and plays the part of strange, wandering tourist at the appropriate moments; makes the proper introductions with a polite curtsey and mumbled words of greeting; learns the correct terminology and tidbits of information that she’ll need to blend in as best as possible. Almost immediately, Celestelle finds a sort of kinship with Moren, and wishes for nothing more than to join the soft-spoken librarian in the Cabinet of Curiosity.

Despite herself, she dutifully makes her way to the central courtyard, where the Exarch stands still as a statue, every ilm the regal ruler of this last monument to civilization and hope. He attempts to engage her in light, frivolous conversation as he leads her into the Tower. Up, up, up so many winding spirals of grand staircases, across landings beneath and within the upsettingly blue walls lined with a king’s bounty of gold; she climbs and climbs until at last, she reaches a startlingly plain set of doors watched by a single guard who salutes in greeting as she passes, but says nothing else as he strolls away now that the Exarch’s guest has finally arrived. 

The study itself — “The Ocular,” the Exarch calls it — is a small, circular jewel box of a room — or perhaps a tomb. She hasn’t yet decided. It will all depend upon how he answers her next, most pressing question.

The Exarch speaks of her friends and their whereabouts, but Celestelle’s mind is elsewhere, deep in the bowels of the Tower, a single question pushing insistently at her lips in bubble urgency. At last, she gives in and sets the words free, lets them blossom into life in the space between herself and the Exarch. Deep in her soul, she can feel the scholar’s still-beating heart, somewhere, lost...but alive.

“What of G’raha Tia?”

The Crystal Exarch freezes — to most, it would be imperceptible, but to Celestelle’s trained eyes, the tell is enough, half a second too long to be casual. 

And then he lies. 

“Who? I’ve never heard such a name.”

Celestelle blinks, processing, analyzing. She gathers her wits and explains, the story a bitter taste on her tongue that turns to ash when the Exarch simply waves away her tale and diverts the subject.

Confusion and heartbreak seep their way into her blood. He’s lying. He has to be, right? She can still feel the thread tying her heart to G’raha’s...can’t she?

_ He still lives on the Source, but you cannot reach him there _ , her logical mind states, and realization hits her anew that she truly will never see G’raha again. It had been a fool’s desperate hope anyways, a faraway dream to be chased but never caught.

She bites back the emotions that claw at her, begging to be let out. Not now. Not here. She has to continue playing along, motivated by the promise of private accommodations. She doesn’t notice the way the Exarch watches her, his pretty speeches and explanations finished. He leads her back out into the city, down to the markets; he even introduces Celestelle to a pixie whom she regards with fake enthusiasm, but only half-hearted interest. When he finally brings her to the suite, she cannot be rid of his awful, beautiful company quickly enough, and yet, when he at last leaves her in peace behind the locked doors of her rooms, a new sort of yawning void opens its maw within her chest.

And suddenly, the threads become clear. 

Opalescent red twines with sparkling silver-blue.

And Celestelle weeps.

  
  
  


“You love her, don’t you, [Crystal King]?” a trilling voice muses in his ear the moment the Ocular doors shut behind him. The Crystal Exarch turns to smile — bittersweet and growing darker — at the flame-haired pixie, nodding with somber solemnity.

“It would seem there’s no hiding anything from you, Feo Ul,” he chuckles, making his way over to the doors of the Umbilicus, his staff creating a rhythmic clank with every tap against the dark marble floor.

Feo Ul tuts and twirls to rest upon his shoulder, tugging back the dark fabric of his hood to run their tiny hands along the edge of his ear.

“How long have you loved her?”

His ear flickers beneath the pixie’s touch, and the faintest dusting of pink blossoms on his cheeks.

“My entire life, since even before I knew her.”

“She’s your  _ anam cinnidh _ , then?”

He sighs as he slumps down into the gilded oak chair behind his grand, cluttered desk, fiddling with the end of his braid idly.

“Yes,” he finally says, finally gives voice to a truth he never dared speak aloud until now. “She is my soulmate, and I am hers until my dying breath.”

“But she doesn’t know, does she?”

He smirks, still tinged with bitterness and exhaustion. “Correct again, [my friend].”

“She deserves to know.”

“She deserves to be happy.”

“Don’t you think she’d be happy with you?”

“I am neither a young man, nor a whole one. I cannot give her the life she wants.”

Feo Ul sighs and drags themselves up off of his shoulder. They frown so mightily that he can feel it in his soul.

“She deserves to know.”

And then they are gone.

He summons an image into his all-seeing mirror.

His heart breaks for the fiftieth time that day.

Separated by walls and secrets though they are, G’raha joins Elle, crumpled on the floor of their respective rooms, and they both mourn the unknown thing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's curious, there is a reason our lovely WoL is currently going by "Celestelle" instead of her usual "Khione." You'll just have to stick around and see why (once I get to writing the next chapter)
> 
> Shout out to all of the lovely people [Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic) for their enthusiastic support and encouragement! Come check it out if you want more awesome FFXIV fic, or are interested in writing FFXIV fic!
> 
> Comments and DMs give me joy! I love hearing from all of y'all!
> 
> Love,  
> Blue the Magpie


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